University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

—A Goatherd's Cottage upon the Mountains.
Enter Shenkin, with his quarter-staff in his hand.
SHENKIN.

Here, Winifred, take my staff.

Enter Winifred.
WINIFRED.

I will, sir.—Are you not weary?

SHENKIN.

I am, my Mountain Rose. My tough frame will
endure shaking. I have had a rugged dance
over our mountains.

WINIFRED.

Have you been to the retreat of the Prince?

SHENKIN.

I have, my girl. Drove before me three milch
goats and their kids—a seasonable supply. They
had kept Lent there before, I can tell you. The
whole little army are at work now upon the
cookery.

WINIFRED.

Your pardon, sir, but did you see,—

SHENKIN.

Beshrew me, sweetheart, I forgot. Cadwall,
my hero, my son, thy lover, commends him to
you.—Give her, father, said he, a kiss for me;
and though your beard be none of the best-trimmed,
and your head be powdered with our
mountain snows in your journey, yet, trust me,
Win will not like it the worse, when given from
the lip of a loyal subject.

(Kissing her.)
WINIFRED.

It is like the blessing of a father to me. Alas!
I have now only you to depend upon. The
war has left me an orphan to your charity. You
have bid me root me in your friendly soil, and I
would fain flourish out of gratitude.

SHENKIN.

I pity the man that can conspire with wintry
winds against such a young blossom as this. No,
let him rescue the frail slip from solitude and
neglect; water it with the dews of kindness,
and bid it “live a little longer:”—Its sweetness
will repay him.

WINIFRED.

Such was my poor father, though a mountaineer.

SHENKIN.

Though a mountaineer! S'life, girl, the mountain
is the soil of all the virtues. To the mountain
independence clings, and heaven's best
blessing—liberty. It is the fountain-head of
goodness, and if the stream is ever muddy in
its course through life, why it is by working
through the muck of cities in the valley.

WINIFRED.

I should think as you do, but while war besets
us in a thousand perilous forms, and famine
blows his sickly breath over our hills, the only
virtue we can practise is patience.

SHENKIN.

The crown of all, my sweet. The courtier-aspin
trembles at every gust of Fortune's gale.
The forest king defies its power; it may ruffle
his garment a little, but it only makes his trunk
more hardy.

WINIFRED.

Ah, my Cadwall! my women's nature shudders
at the rough proof thy courage brings upon
thee.

SHENKIN.

His courage!—his duty. His life now is one
of the sacred guards heaven places round his
prince! No weakness, girl. Like an old eagle,

I bred him callow in this airy nest; at length,
matured and generous like his race, I drove him
forth, to gaze upon the sun.

WINIFRED.

What wonder is there, that the best of parents
should be the most generous of friends?

SONG.—Winifred.

SHENKIN.

Nay, no praise for mere duty. (Exit Winifred.)

It shocks me like a bribe. The proper
pride of our nature is to do what's fitting for its
own sake; and disregard even ingratitude.

Enter a Soldier, armed.

So abruptly, friend—What would you?

SOLDIER.

My orders are to search this cottage. You
are suspected to give succour to the prince!

SHENKIN.

Is that all? Am I but suspected to be loyal?
Soldier, had that young chin of your's been
fledged some twenty years back, you might
have had war-proof of your suspicion.

SOLDIER.

I like his plainness. I'll wink at this old
honesty. (Aside.)
You're not the man I took
you for.

SHENKIN.

Yes, but I am! Shenkin my name; and if I
could deny that, my character is so well known,
thank heav'n, that chance can never blow away
a mischief, that malice meant should fall upon
my shoulders.

SOLDIER.

Take my advice; hide yourself. You are
traced visiting the rebel's camp, Llewellyn.

SHENKIN.

The prince, a rebel! Against whom, stranger?

SOLDIER.

The mighty Edward, claiming homage of
him; on his refusal, treats him as a rebel.

SHENKIN.

Claim homage! What is that? Bid weakness
bend to kiss the foot of pow'r, lest its fierce tread
should trample it to mire!

SOLDIER.

Look'ee, father; fortune has cast us on different
sides; but I hope I do not wrong the cause I
serve, by respecting the fidelity I practise.

SHENKIN.

Thank you, my friend. I could wish to honour
you like a soldier in the field of battle; but
the old fox, I us'd to wield when young, grew
heavy for me; so—all his fortune—I will'd it
to my son; and when here I earth me, may
my boy's valour earn one sprig of laurel to
wave over me, and I shall lay me down, like
cradled infancy, whose sleep is rock'd by angels.

SOLDIER.

Well, well; yet be careful, old heart. That
nap you talk of taking need not be hastened by
rashness; and your day is drawing so near the
close, that it must be folly to go to sleep before
bed-time. Farewel, thou true Cambro-Briton.

SHENKIN.

Strike home, boy.

[Exeunt.
SCENE—Snowdon; a rocky Pass in the Mountains.
Cadwall and Gwyn discovered keeping Guard with their Cross-bows.
GWYN.

How goes the watch, comrade? It can't be
long now to day-break.

CADWALL.

Close upon it, if day could bring comfort
with it.

GWYN.

Well, well, we have one consolation, Cadwall;
we have done our duty: and let death
overtake hur how he may, he will never catch
hur deserting hur commander.

CADWALL.

True, lad: but there are some in high stations,
who think very differently. Our small number
is daily thinned by desertion.

GWYN.

The cowards! why there is an end of all principle
near. Desert their natural prince in a
time of trouble! May Snowdon crumble hur to
ashes, when hur shrinks from the brave Llewellyn.

CADWALL.

Aye, he is brave; but interest is the idol now.
The sordid, like an eddy, turn against the stream
of honour itself, whenever its current experiences
a check.

GWYN.

Ha! what noise approaches? Stand, or I
shoot.

CADWALL.

Who comes so fast upon us?

Enter Dynevor.
DYNEVOR.

A friend, and countryman. One who, while
hope remained, fought at the head of your ranks.
We have now no safety but in the conqueror's
mercy.

CADWALL.

That may be true, my lord. And, shrunk as
our numbers are, dejection in our commanders
does not seem the best way to keep up our
spirits.

DYNEVOR.

Follow me, comrades: I engage for your
safety and reward. The royal Edward—

CADWALL.

Is, like our lord, a sovereign, and must hate a
traitor.

DYNEVOR.
Then you refuse the tender of his mercy?

CADWALL.
I neither do refuse, nor yet solicit it—
I must be found, however, in my duty;
And, if then conquered, he extend his mercy,
I shall deserve it.

DYNEVOR.
How now! conscience-shaken!
Here's silence to your scruples, my good fellows.

(Throws a purse.)
CADWALL.
Your purse we keep, my lord: and it shall serve
A better purpose than to purchase treason.

DYNEVOR.
Hell take these honest fools!
(Aside.)
O, my brave soldiers,
How I admire your steady loyalty!
Pardon the trial taught us by the time:
Our daily losses make us doubt the bravest.
Nay, keep the gold, and trust my best report.
The day begins to break; farewel, my countrymen.

[Exit.
GWYN.

As hur is a christian soul's, as errant a man-trap
as ever snapt up a false thief! What, make
use of his feints and his wiles to prove our
loyalty!

CADWALL.
That may be doubtful. But at any rate,
We have the captain's money for our answers.
If he meant foully, treachery is defeated.
The sun has clear'd the hills—Our watch is up.

[Exeunt.
SCENE—Another Part of the Mountain.
Enter Llewellyn slowly, and pensive.
LLEWELLYN.
So, one day more of freedom in despair!
I thought this heart was proof against my fate;
But it at length sinks under the oppression.
Yet, if I droop, it is not that the elements
Warp round my shivering body; nor that thou,
Soul-sickening Famine, scowl'st upon my head;
Ingratitude! that harpy, plows my bosom,
And drives her talons to my secret soul!
O man, man, man, creation's pride and shame,
How shall we palliate thy treachery?
The brute, obeying instinct, loves his master,
And, chance offending, humbles at his feet,
Willing to bleed for pardon:—but the friend,
The bosom-friend, that image of a god!
Drinks the life-blood there, revels in the stream,
And drops his traitor-poison in the spring.

Enter Cadwall.
CADWALL.
Health to my gracious prince!

LLEWELLYN.
Good-morrow, Cadwall.

CADWALL.
I grieve to herald thus the day with sorrow;
But more desertion has disgrac'd the night.

LLEWELLYN.
Whom next am I to tear from my affections?

CADWALL.
Dynevor—Sir Hugh ap Meredith—no more.

LLEWELLYN.
Thus do I spurn them from me. How escaped they?

CADWALL.
Dynevor attempted to pass down the cliff
I guarded in the night—he offer'd bribes;
But, baffled here, he sought the lower pass,
And there succeeded.

LLEWELLYN.
This is master treason!
Judge how I lov'd these vagrant summer birds,
Whom the rude breath of winter hurries from me.
A moment's leisure, soldier, and I come.
Thou hast a valiant and a feeling heart,
And that can dignify the humblest station.
I may live to prefer thee, my young friend;
If not, why let us share our dang'rous honours,
And die as freemen, countrymen, and brothers.

CADWALL.
My noble, gracious master!

(Snatching his hand, and kissing it on his knees.)
[Exit.
LLEWELLYN.
My brother! for is he not truly so,
Who binds his service to my feeble fortunes?
While he, who slept in the same womb with me,
Libels his race and nature by desertion!
Ye pow'rs, that watch over the fate of Kingdoms,
Hear me with favour—steel my mind, my frame,
For more than mortal suff'rance! You behold me,
One plac'd aloft, a fix'd and glaring mark,
For the unceasing arrows of ill fortune.
Swelling with all the high-conceived hopes
Of sovereignty, I yet must keep one place
Within my heart, not dedicate to glory;
And while love fills it, it corrects the whole,
And melts the stubborn temper of ambition.
Do thou, my Elinor, with perfect truth,
Inviolable love, possess my thoughts,
And reconcile me to a loathsome world!
(Kissing her picture.)
Now, Edward, come; for I am arm'd to meet thee.
Close to my heart I lay this darling pledge:
'Tis the bright shield of hope, bound on by love,
And doubt and fear but gaze on it, and die.

[Exit.
Enter O'Turloch, with his Pipes, and Gwyn.
O'TURLOCH.

To be sure I hav'nt made a pretty hand of it.
See what it is to be born a man of genius. I
must be following the heroes of the world like a
herald's trumpet, and giving immortality to all
their noble actions: and behold what a condition

I am in. If they must have the Irish pipes to
inspire 'em, they should at least pay the piper.

GWYN.

Well; but, Mr. Turloch, what brought you
here into Wales, where we have bards enough,
Got knows, to tune Lllewellyn's heart-strings
till the whole globe is harmony with his music.

O'TURLOCH.

By my grandfather's bag-pipe, your demand is
reasonable. Why, friend Gwyn, I'll tell you. In
this great big round world of our's there are
three kinds of beings.—Men, without parts;
men of parts, without poetry; and men of poetry,
with great parts: for the latter class, little Ireland
takes the lead of the universe.

GWYN.

Of what advantage are those parts you talk
of?

O'TURLOCH.

O, infinite.—First and foremost, there are the
parts of speech; which are ten, I hear, in England,
and eleven in dear Ireland.

GWYN.

What is that eleventh, pray you? Is it important?

O'TURLOCH.

Faith, you may say that. The eleventh part
of speech is the most important of 'em all.

GWYN.

Indeed! What do you call it?

O'TURLOCH.

Call it?—Why silence, to be sure!

GWYN.

Silence, a part of speech?

O'TURLOCH.

To be sure; and one of the most civil and
well-bred of the whole set. For instance now;
what a cursed gabbling and confusion would you
and I be making here, if, while I am explaining,
you were to be prating at the same time? O,
ever while you live, stick to the eleventh part of
speech; and neither man, woman, nor child, will
be offended at any thing you say to 'em.

GWYN.

Ha! ha! that is goot. Hur is aware of the
knavery, and the mockery of it. Very excellent
goot it is. You have studied these things
well.

O'TURLOCH.

As well as any man of my height, jewel. I studied
it in the bog of Allen, which is Irish for the

garden of Eden. And as for my skill in the
pipes—But I have composed a song in praise
of my practice.—

SONG—O'Turloch.

GWYN.

Your song is goot—but let us to our affairs.

Enter Cadwall and Soldiers.
CADWALL.

I can see no trace of the invader's forces. Surely
they have retreated, weary of hunting brave
fellows among the rocks.

GWYN.

Nay, he need not give over the chace; for he
might easily enough be in at the death.

O'TURLOCH.

Hav'nt I told you, that while I am piper to
the corps, not a man of you shall ever die. The
muse of O'Turloch shall brighten you all into
stars of the first magnitude; and the goatherd,
as he scrambles over the rocks, shall look up,
and honour the twinkling souls of the heroes who
died for their country.

Gwyn
(suddenly).

By the thunder of heaf'n look you—here a
comes! (looking out).
The enemy is make his approach
in as prave disposition as heart could
wish; and is now winding up the base of Snowdon.

CADWALL.

I see—there he comes. Look! where the
point of yonder rock breaks the view of the
river.

O'TURLOCH.

Aye, aye, you may discern the quills of this
steely porcupine glittering among the craggs.

CADWALL.

Where is the Prince Llewellyn now? To arms!
—To arms!

(They seize their arms, and run to the brow of the cliffs:)
(Llewellyn enters at the side scene, with his arms folded, unobserved by the soldiers, who stand earnestly gazing on the enemy.)
LLEWELLYN.
At length we are surrounded. From the brow
Of this rude hill, I lay upon my breast,
And told the number of the enemy—
Full fifteen hundred men—completely arm'd.
Now then to prove my comrades.—Brother soldiers!

CADWALL.
Ho! the general—the Prince is now arriv'd.

LLEWELLYN.
Well, my brave friends—You see our foe is kind;
He spares us from the frowning winter's blast,
And mows us down in autumn with the sword.
Say, shall we yield our throats submissively,
Or die the death of heroes?

All.
Die like Britons!

LLEWELLYN.
On to th'attack, then! Stop, the enemy halts;
And from his ranks one heralded by Peace,
With signs of truce advances, while the rest,
Grounding their weighty pikes, expect the issue.
Shall we admit of parly?

(Drum beats.)
CADWALL.
He approaches.

LLEWELLYN.
'Tis Hereford, the general of their army.

Enter Hereford.
HEREFORD.
I would have converse with the Prince Llewellen.
Yet, not commissioned by my royal master;
But solely mov'd by generous concern,
To try what efficacy may be found
In mediation's charitable office.

LLEWELLYN.
Llewellyn stands to hear thee. Valiant lord,
Whose banner shews the purer by the side
Of iron mail—whose tongue of peace
Charms the blood-loving javelin from its mark,
Speak, in the name of Heav'n, thy present purpose.

HEREFORD.
Thus, then, in few. There is a point in contest,
To which arriv'd, resistance from the name
Of courage falls to wild temerity.
Nor should a leader, proud of following love,
Tempt a rough trial quite beyond his strength,
At peril of the lives of those he leads.

LLEWELLYN.
And at this point you think me now arriv'd—
But know, my lord, if I but thought one man
Who hears me, priz'd his life beyond his freedom,
I would not be a bar 'twixt him and peace.

HEREFORD.
'Tis bravely spoken. Ere we put in proof
Their close affection to your cause and person,
Allow me to propose such terms to you,
As I have credit to see ratified.
Yield, prince, and at discretion, to king Edward;
Submit to pay a gentle fine we'll name,
And hold of him, during your natural life,
This principality, which at your death
Shall add its lustre to the English crown.—
I wait for your reply.

LLEWELLYN.
'Tis in my scabbard.
Think you the soil that nourished me to empire
So lightly priz'd, that I could see its bondage?
Retain it for my life!—My life!—a span:
I live in my descendants.—Lord, I trust
When these bones whiten in the eagle's nest,
My children, with a better fate than mine,
Shall rule the land in happiness and honour.

HEREFORD.
Reflect, I charge you, prince; ere final answer,
Take time; I'll not now press you for reply.

LLEWELLYN.
Reflect, if I shall yield me to injustice!
The right once felt cannot be spoke too soon.—
I must reject my life on such conditions.

HEREFORD.
I turn me then to you his followers.—
Deluded men, whom yet our mercy spares
For this last trial, listen to my words.

LLEWELLYN.
'Tis fit you should; and weigh well his proposals.

HEREFORD.
On one condition, here I tender pardon;
Seize yonder traitor to his oath and homage,
Deliver him an offering unto justice,
And high rewards shall amplify our boon.

(A pause—all silent.)
LLEWELLYN.
Why are you silent, friends? You cannot balance.
Accept his offer. Mark well the conditions.
He promises you honour for disgrace;
Who then can hesitate to bind his prince?
Not yet determined!—Let me well advise you.
Standing with me, you look on certain death.
Think of your helpless wives, your orphan'd children,
All sacrific'd, if you are scrupulous.
Yet once more, general, help me to persuade 'em.

HEREFORD.
Amazement wraps me at his fortitude!
They're silent still, and hang the head in sorrow.

LLEWELLYN.
Still, friends, irresolute! Perhaps your hearts
Cherish some pity for a long-tried friend;
And thus are loath to yield him to his fate.
Have pity on yourselves—be wise and truckle.
True, we are friends; but 'tis calamity
Makes the sole bond betwixt us—did we flourish,
I should be thron'd too high for your associate;
And you be common men in my regard.

CADWALL.
This is not kind in our commander, boys.
But may I perish if I e'er betray him!

LLEWELLYN.
O, I have solv'd the scruple. Feeble cowards,
'Tis fear to rush upon a single man.
Lo, there my trusty sword, nay ev'n my dagger,
I fling before you—I am now defenceless.
Come, who advances?

CADWALL.
Aye, if hell should gape
And swallow the refusers, who's the wretch
That would betray his leader and his sovereign?

(They all rush forward, and fall at his feet.)
LLEWELLYN.
Read in this act their answer.—Matchless men!
My swelling heart is bursting with delight.
Hence to thy armed files, proud chieftain! Now!—
For, ere thou tell the issue of thy errand,
The sword shall cut the thread of thy narration.
[Exit Hereford.
(A slight pause, and then Llewellyn speaks to the soldiers, who gather in a semicircular direction from the passes of the rock, and pressing forward, listen in respectful silence.)
My valiant friends! A moment serves for orders.
You know your enemy; and your own courage.
Let every man think in his single arm
Resides the power to turn the scales of Victory.
We have against us, discipline and numbers;
For us, the God who loves the patriot purpose,
This rugged eminence, and our good swords.
Our force is scanty—but, by stratagem,
May spread itself to such secure annoyance
As makes a host of few.
You, Cadwall, take a fourth part of our brothers,
And winding round the skirts of Snowdon wood
Fall on their rear. Gwyn, you best know the forest;
And there disperse your force. Ourself with half
Of this brave troop will charge them from the heights.
If we prevail, we drive them tow'rds the wood,
And there, as to a centre, all our force
Converging, executes the work of death.
To your posts, leaders! Draw your honest swords!
Sound trumpets!—till the mountains rend the skies
With their fierce echoes. Now then, friends, set on them.
The word is Briton-born: “Freedom or death!”

[Exeunt, sword in hand.
(A clang of trumpets and borns—while the curtain is falling.)